


Star of the Sea

by disaster_imp



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, No the end does not justify the means you magical cretins, The inherent traume of witchers, The order of witchers, This is a witcher creation fix-it, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, witchering's not just for boys any more
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:42:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28668678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disaster_imp/pseuds/disaster_imp
Summary: What if... the Order (may they rot in agony) were wrong? What if the mushrooms and herbs that were fed to witcher trainees weren't necessary? What if they were the reasons the girls died in the witcher production factory, rather than the trial of grasses? What if there was another way?Written for the'this is obviously a new kind of witcher medallion'flash fiction prompt.
Relationships: Essi Daven & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 17
Kudos: 35
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #013





	Star of the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Witcher creation methods and the resulting deaths of children are discussed.

Jaskier drags his hand through the water, the ripples his fingers makes washing away with the surge and flow of the ocean's waves. He looks across to the east with ill-disguised longing. _One day,_ he thinks to himself, closing his hand around his sea star medallion. He's already beaten death once, the perils of a four-month ocean crossing hold no fear for him.

Returning to the keep, he loops the bag of mussels across his back and scales the wall rather than traverse the path all the way around to the gate. It's such a common way for trainee witchers to come and go that there's a window left open for them, and he climbs through straight into the kitchen. 

"Thanks lad," Kellar the cook says. "How many left out there?"

Kellar knows perfectly well how many trainees are still out there.

"Essi and Markus are the last two," Jaskier informs him.

"Good lad, go and get cleaned up for dinner then you can come back and wait for them."

He's sixteen, but truthfully, he doesn't mind still being treated as a child. He's cared for, here. Looked after. Jaskier nods. There's a tray of tarts sitting temptingly on a small table by the door, and he glances at them longingly.

"Don't you even think about it, those are for supper," Kellar growls, waving a knife at Jaskier. 

It's an empty threat, though he pretends to take it seriously. He reaches out with his left hand, only to have it slapped away by Kellar; his other hand is fast enough to nab another and he races off, laughing, Kellar bellowing behind him that he'll pay for his crimes with blood.

Jaskier grins and waves, running off to find a shady nook and a quiet minute to enjoy his stolen treat, lemony and sweet. It's an unwritten rule that stealing treats from the kitchen is part of their training; the older they get, the more difficult Kellar makes the challenge, the more creative they have to be.

*****

First, there was the conjuction of the spheres, with its influx of monsters and chaos.

Then came the Order of Witchers, a group of kings and mages who, with little concern for the lives lost, forced mutations and trials upon volunteers, willing or unwilling, in order to create a breed of magic-wielding knights.

When they realised the secret lay in using children, the darker turn of ethics splintered the Order.

Here is where we divert paths from the Continent. 

_Isilde took with her such notes and records as she could and stole me away, a child barely through the trial of grasses, and we left the Continent. With a small, sturdy ship and a spelled hold to keep our provisions from fouling, we sailed west. Tales of a western continent were still considered a myth; Isilde rationalised that the strange birds that fly to Skellige from the west every year suggest otherwise._

_We sailed for four months before striking land. Isilde established the School of the Sea Star on the very coast where we landed, modelling a medallion after the brilliantly coloured, 12-armed poisonous sea stars the locals call 'Crown of Thorns'. She said she wanted something beautiful as well as functional. I treasure mine greatly._

_I offered my services in the local area while Isilde shared her time between research and selling her magical expertise to fund her research. This continent does not have such a thing as a law of surprise, and the people here have a strong community; orphans are fostered, children are highly valued. So Isilde recruited her subjects from amonst the local community. She refuses to repeat the cruelty of the past, however - there is no justification for the torture we were subjected to before and during the trial of grasses. The tests she conducts are on living tissue, grown in her laboratory, and voluntarily donated by the families she has assisted. A scrape of a blunt blade across the skin is all she needs to collect a few dead skin cells, and she can grow more from there._

_She apologises again and again for what was done to me, even though it was not her doing and she could not have stopped it. I have faith that here, unhindered by the heartless ambitions and cruelty of her fellow mages, she will find a way to improve the process. When she does, we will return and show them that there is a better way._

_Isilde has conducted a wide range of tests and is no closer to finding a single factor that permits human tissue to accept rather than reject the mutagens, nevertheless she has made an interesting discovery. Some of the laboratory-grown human tissue rejects the mutagens in various ways, and in approxiamately equal proportion to the boys who died during the trials. Other samples tolerate the mutagens well. Cells become stronger, work faster. Heal, instead of decay. She posits that the children who donated these samples are those who are most likely to be receptive to the mutagens. Boys and girls in equal number show favourable results, and Isilde has come to believe that it was not the trial of grasses that killed the girls in the original cohorts, but rather the concoctions they were fed to enhance their growth and make their bodies more receptive to the mutagens._

_However, she has hope: if the cells that accept the mutagens can be used as a test, if the subjects themselves respond to the mutagens in the same way that their cells do, she can reject anyone unsuitable and that will be the end of it._

_We will not sacrifice any more children to test her theory, but there may be another way. One of the chldren in the village whose cells have proven compatible with the mutagens is dying. Neither Isilde nor the local healers have been able to halt the slow progression of his illness, so today I am going to his family with an offer. I must emphasise, that this will be the child's choice, and it will only be made in full cognizance of the facts: the process will be painful, but he has a chance to live. I only hope that in his weakened state, it is not too much for him..._

**_\- notes from the diary of Crag van Leyda, a Brief History of Kaer Havbolge_ **

  
Jaskier closes the book with a soft thump and puts back on its shelf. He knows what happened by heart. Eldin was the first witcher created by the School of the Sea Star, and he is now their grandmaster. His illness - although it hadn't made him stronger like the mushrooms and herbs that were forced on the Continent's unfortunate children - made his body more receptive to the Trail of Grasses. It didn't fight the process, unlike the healthy children that Crag had undergone the trials with. After Eldin's success, word spread. Children with terminal illnesses were brought for testing, and those who passed were given the choice to undergo the trial of grasses. 

Not a single life was lost. Most elected to stay and train as witchers. Who wouldn't, really? A witcher's life is a good one. Wandering the lands in groups of two or three, heroically saving villages and towns from any monsters that were causing problems, being feted for their services afterwards. Not everyone is suited to such a life of course, but the children who are treated here are free to choose their own path when they leave.

Many of them choose to stay, and follow the Path. Jaskier yearns for something more. He often wonders, with no small sadness, how the process has evolved on the Continent. Do they still sacrifice the futures of great numbers of children for the chance at creating a few witchers? Did young witchers grow up, perhaps, and destroy their creators for the trauma inflicted? Are they still conducting their horrific experiments? Isilde and Crag never made it back - they died, one hundred years ago, killed on a mission together when the mate of the red dragon they were hunting attacked, catching them by surprise. 

He is becoming agitated, and he knows that if he permits his mind to keep wandering down this path, he will not sleep. He picks up his lute and makes his way down for dinner. 

Essi nudges him when he sits down next to her. "Count?" she demands.

"Why yes, my darling Essi, if you so desire. One, two, three, four - "

"Mussell count, you knucklehead, you know perfectly well what I meant."

Jaskier shrugs. "Less than you. It's always less than you, why do you bother asking?"

Essi's eyes are wide and amber, and she can narrow them to slitted cat's pupils if she wants to, giving her enhanced night vision. At night, they reflect light like little silver discs. Night vision would be nice, but it's one of the voluntary mutations that Jaskier has chosen against - he rather likes the clear, deep blue of his own eyes. A vanity, he supposes. He could always make the choice later, but he could never undo it if he changed his mind.

"Essi," he says suddenly. "When we're ready to go out on the Path, I want to travel to the western continent."

Essi chokes on a mouthful of bread. "Why the _fuck_ would you want to do that?"

Drawing a deep breath, Jaskier explains. When he finishes laying his thoughts out for her, he adds, "I don't know what to expect there, Essi. And I'd _miss_ you, of course. And they have - or had - schools, a university. You have your flute, I my lute... maybe we could learn their music? I just... I want to travel, and life is good here. But most of all, I want to know how the story ends for the witchers of the Continent. I want to know that they're not still doing those terrible things to children. I need to know they're not still _torturing_ children."

"You want to change it, if you can," Essi says softly. "You have a good heart. Yes, I'll come with you. _Someone_ has to protect you from yourself."

  
It takes them two years to be ready, between training and studies and gathering supplies. Essi acquires a pair of charms, a ring each, that will help them learn languages faster. Eldin himself shows them to a hidden boathouse under the keep. Inside is an aged jetty, and tied to that is the very boat that had transport Isilde and Crag all the way here from the eastern continent, apparently spelled for more than fresh food in the hold: It looks as good as new, with no sign of rot or decay. 

"Might as well take it. Hasn't been used as long as I've been here," Eldin tells them.

Jaskier runs a hand over the wooden prow with reverent awe. An inscription on the side says _'Gamechanics'_. "Is that her name?" Jaskier asks. His medallion hums lightly as his fingers trace the letters. "Or... something to do with her magic?"

"Her magic," Eldin says. "There's more to this ship than the spelled hold mentioned in the records, no doubt Isilde took other measures to ensure their safety on such an unknown journey. You'll figure it out. I'm sure she'll serve you well."

They test the hold with food both fresh and already spoiling, and find that not only does its magic hold after so long, as well as keeping fresh food fresh, it halts the spoiled food from spoiling further. Whatever they put in, comes out in the same condition. 

When they set off, it's to tearful farewells from the inhabitants of Kaer Havbolge, promises to return one day extracted by both friends and masters alike. Essi and Jaskier have both earned their swords, and while Essi displays hers proudly, Jaskier keeps his wrapped up, carrying his lute instead. Eldin and Kellar crank open the boathouse doors together, and when Essi puts her hand on the tiller, ready to ask for a push to get them started, the boat speeds forward of its own accord. Jaskier loses his footing, falling face first onto the floor. She lets go of the tiller, and the boat stops with the same sudden jerk. 

_"Essi, what the fuck?!"_ Jaskier growls at her. She beams back at him, standing up to give their farewall party a wave and a thumbs up.

"We don't need the wind, it has its own power," she says gleefully. 

"Could you not ease into it a little slower next time?"

"Nope, it has two settings, fast and stop," Essi says, grasping the tiller again. Jaskier grabs hold of the mast when he stumbles again, and Essi laughs. "This is never going to get old."

"It's already old," Jaskier grumbles.

*****

Four months later, having weathered two storms, they are down to two weeks' worth of food and water, longer if they ration it carefully. Jaskier complains constantly, and he rather suspects that Essi is ready to tip him over the side, but he can't seem to _stop_. 

"Jaskier!" Essi finally snaps. "I'm just as tired and hungry and bored and afraid as you are. This was your idea, now grow some _fucking_ ovaries and woman up, will you?"

Jaskier glares at her and climbs up to the crows nest. The air is thick with tension for a whole two minutes.

"Birds!" he shouts suddenly, pointing to the north east. Essi attempts to turn the boat in that direction, but the tiller fights her. 

"I think it knows where it's taking us... Jask, what if it's going back to the place Isilde was running from?"

"Do we have a choice? I doubt Isilde would have spelled to return somewhere dangerous. Anyway, nearly hundred years have passed. They've probably been forgotten."

 _"We_ didn't forget," Essi points out. "Get your swords ready, just in case. And put your ring on!"

Jaskier sighs, bringing the bundle up from the hold and strapping them to his back. He stows his lute and Essi's flute safely below. The charmed ring Essi gave him before their journey hangs from the chain of his witcher medallion; he loops it back off, and puts it on his finger. 

It's half an hour before they sight land, and their small ship skirts around the southern shore of an island before coming to rest at a decaying jetty, inside a cave. Jaskier drops the anchor, and Essi attaches mooring ropes to the most stable structures she can find. They make their way carefully down the unstable jetty to the back of the cavern, where a path leads out through a grove of trees and inland. 

The are met, at the borders of a farmhouse, by a man inexpertly holding a rusted sword. "Ich ye flawrerrrgy," he growls at them unintellibly.

Essi and Jaskier exchange a glance, and Essi raises her hands in what she hopes is a peaceful gesture. She points to herself, and then to Jaskier. "Essi. Jaskier."

"Essi. Jaskier." The man frowns, dropping the point of his sword and pointing to himself. "My name is Draven."

More garbled words, but when he points to the house, Jaskier makes out the word 'home'. The more Draven speaks, the more words he recognises; the more Jaskier repeats the words, the more he understands. The man points down to the cave where their boat lies.

"Did you come from - " the end of the sentence is lost again, but Jaskier assumes he means the cave. 

"Yes," he replies at the same time as Essi says "No."

Essi glares at Jaskier. "We don't know who we can trust!"

The man shakes his head, but nods at Jaskier and beckons them inside. 

  
It takes a day of conversation for Jaskier and Essi to understand the man's language well enough to carry a conversation. Draven tells them that his family were tasked through a blood debt, many generations ago, to give aid to any travellers who returned through that cove. 

"Never happened before," Draven tells them. "Thought it was a myth."

He goes on to tell them that they are near the city of Bremervoord, where one Duke Agloval rules. Further along the northern coast lies the Isle of Thanedd, where Aretuza, school of the sorceress' stands. 

They stay with Draven for a week: long enough for them to learn the language fluently, and to learn as much as they could about the Continent. Draven's family were bound by a sorceress many generations ago to give aid to any traveller who returned to the continent through that cove. They learn that they are in a region known as Cidaris, that the nearest city is Bremervoord, and that the sorceress' citadel Aretuza on the isle of Thanedd is several days' journey to the east. Oxenfurt, the university that Jaskier expressed an interest in, a few days' journey north of that. They learn that they might earn some coin, playing in inns and taverns, or picking up contracts meant for witchers, since a witcher isn't always available. 

Most of all, they learn of the Continent's disdain for witchers. They learn of attacks on the various schools that branched off from the Order, just like the School of the Sea Star did. Wolves and Griffins; Cats, Vipers and Bears, each with their own medallions, each with their own reputations. They learn of unprovoked attacks by humans on the Witcher schools, and they decide to keep their affiliation a secret until they know more.

They return to the ship for their packs and instruments. Essi gives Jaskier a playful shove when they step back onto the sandy beach, and he stumbles into a large rock. As he does so, his medallion vibrates.

"Essi? There's something here..." Running his fingers around the rock, he finds a circular indent. "It needs a key."

Frowning, Essi takes off her medallion and places it inside the ring. Stone grates, and a door between the rock and the cavern wall, hidden in shadows, drops open. Inside is a note, and a dozen velvet pouches.

_Ye who retornen in min stead: Ich canne only truste that ich han yiven ye atte keye to thys horde meself. Ther ys an secound chalenge: yf ye doon not knowe atte words to stoppen atte spelle, ye will certayn fynd youre ende._  
**_\- Isilde, magus, 976_ **

"That... doesn't sound good." Jaskier says, opening a pouch to find it filled with precious gems. Essi nudges him, and he looks up. in a dome around them, starting from the edges of the cavern and extending out across the water, a golden barrier of light appears. It creeps towards them slowly.

"How long have we got?" Jaskier asks nervously.

"About three minutes."

"Ah. Well. It was nice knowing you, Essi."

Essi ignores him, and is busy running through signs to blast the barrier with. None work. 

"Look," she says, turning to Jaskier impatiently. "If she imbued our medallions with the magic needed to unlock her magic box, she must _also_ have taught us the counter-spell. _Think,_ Jaskier!"

He tries a few phrases in their own language, and then in the new language they've learned. Superstitious nonsense, phrases people say to keep others safe.

"Hang on," Essi says suddenly. "Say that again."

Jaskier repeats a children's rhyme in the language Draven taught them.

"It sounds a bit like... a different dialect, but - the words we recite when we receive our medallions."

"Language changes over time. Yes, it must be from the language Isilde spoke, centuries ago!"

Taking Essi's hand, they chant the phrase together. 

"Noon ende justifien atte wen." _No end justifies the means._

The barrier blinks out around them, and they both heave a sigh of relief. 

"We made it, Essi. We're really here. The western continent."

"We did indeed," Essi says, smiling.

"Shall we, then?" Jaskier asks, reaching out for her hand.

She takes it, and they make their way back out of the hidden cove, in search of a story.

**Author's Note:**

> Look if you're an expert on middle English or similar, I apologise for my crimes.
> 
> For everyone else, I used 3 different translator-y options, none of which agreed with each other, and when there was nothing suitable, once or twice I just added an e to the end. Message reads: _You who return in my stead: I can only trust that I have given you the key to this hoard myself. There is a second challenge: if you do not know the words to stop the spell, you will certainly meet (find) your end._


End file.
